What Pegman Saw : To rest among the gravestones

 

‘Can you do it?’ said Connor.

Sonny looked up from tying her laces, lights in her trainers winking in the sunset. ‘You know I can,’ she said.

Her hair was tied in a tangled pony tail, Hello Kitty tee shirt smudged with yesterday’s breakfast beans, eaten cold from the can.

Foot swinging, heel tapping on a slumped gravestone, his sister looked the eight-year-old she was. Not for long, he thought.

A blanket was already spread in the shadow of the archway. Sonny positioned herself on it and lay down, head pointing towards the tumbledown church, toes to the sweeping valley below. Her eyes closed, hands folding neatly on her chest.

He watched, though he hated to see the moment the little girl in her slipped away.

Silence.

Then her face convulsed, rearranged, settled into new folds.

‘Connor?’ said Sonny in a voice that wasn’t hers.

 


This piece of fantastical fiction was written for What Pegman Saw, the writing prompt that uses Google Street View as its starting point. See the pic and write a story, see here to do just that.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Metamorphosis

 

A dozy blue bottle dashes against the window pane, body tock-tocking, a sound like thrown cooked rice.

Metallic soldier flies – emerald and sapphire – ding on the corrugated roof, as if their combined effort might lift the iron sheets from their bolts, set them loose in the chill night air.

Above a bowl – contents melted by rot – dance the fruit flies, their zigzagging a distraction from the bumble bee corpses lined up on the mantle piece, furry bobbles pinned to strips of padded crimson felt.

On every sill and shelf another order of invertebrate – Coleoptera, Dermaptera, Diptera, through the alphabet  – though each frustratingly incomplete.

My menagerie, live and dead.

I close my eyes and the buzz of the dead joins that of the living and my wings shimmer like finely spun glass.

 


This piece of fantastical flash fiction’s title was lovingly stolen from the novella of the same name by Franz Kafka. It surely contains one of the most arresting opening lines in literature.

As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect.

Friday Fictioneers : The boy who powered New York

PHOTO PROMPT ©Jill Wisoff


 

‘Now I know, Doctor Gordon.’

Gordon’s hands lay folded on her lap. She knew not to move too much or too suddenly during their chats. ‘What is it you know, Samuel?’

A light glowed behind his ashen eyes. ‘Why I’m always so tired.’

Beneath the worry lines and shadows, she saw the child trying to escape.

‘The city lights,’ he said, hands a blur, ‘they’re powered by my thoughts. Think of it all – the subway, the stores, the buildings. So much energy.’

Through the barred window, Gordon glimpsed a streetlight. The fat bulb blinked, guttered to darkness …

 


This piece of flash fiction was written for Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s Friday Fictioneers. See the pic, write, share, read and comment here.

What Pegman Saw : The Heard

 

‘Can you Hear them?’ Harriet’s face was pale but for twin spots of feverish colour on her cheekbones.

Lawrence nodded, unable to speak.

Hearing. That was what they called it at the facility known as the Farm. Though that was a misleading title as Lawrence’s experiences weren’t just about sound, they deluged every sense. Back when he was less experienced, he’d come close to disaster, the Heard possessing him, blocking out his reality, giving him their own. The Farm had taught him control – of himself, of the Hearing, of the Heard.

This place, though. There was more here than they’d been told in the briefing. Something older, something dark, it flickered on the edge of his vision, casting the blue sky grey, bleaching the grass, turning the sun to the colour of old bone. A thunderhead of pressure built behind his eyes

‘They’re here,’ he whispered.

 


This piece of fantastical flash fiction was written for What Pegman Saw, the writing prompt inspired by Google Streetview. Today we visit Tulum in Mexico. See here to join in.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Writing opportunity: Calling all Wyrd Sisters … and Brothers

 

Now, I know many of you out there are weird*.

I don’t mean that in a bad way, because you’re like me – you’re drawn to reading and writing on subjects from the darker realms of your imagination and that’s great, right?

When you close your eyes or put pen to paper/ fingers to keyboard, you’re mind is not teeming with big-eyed Disneyfied, fluffy bunny fiction, spilling over with love and flowers and happy endings.

That’s not to say everyone your write is a sociopath with a taste for human flesh, but if your characters are good people who rescue small children and help old ladies cross the road, they are made that way so you can do horrible things to them.

Preferably with pits of magma.

And ghouls.

And horned beasts.

Given that you are a fellow twisted soul who needs a creative outlet (and let’s face it, we’d all be very afraid if you didn’t have an outlet), you might be interested in this writing opportunity at The Wyrd magazine.

So if you’re an author or artist who has

a fondness for weird and slipstream themes

Pop along here. Closing date is the end of this month and good luck, siblings.

 

*Of course, if you’re genuinely weird, you’ll spell this WYRD